Wolf Runner
by kjkdhfakjbfsdsa
Summary: The time is World War Two. Nazi Germany is under attack, and the cities are no longer safe. The mysterious disappearance of a man forces his wife and son to flee to the countryside. There, Gilbert soon finds that the walls surrounding the village keep out more than just the foreign soldiers. AU, Werewolf!Germany, full summary inside. Reviews are love!
1. Verlassen

_Setting: AU universe, WW2, rural Germany. Small village in the Black Forest._

_Characters: Human! Gilbert, Werewolf! Ludwig, Soldier! Arthur, Human! Matthew_

...

_The time is World War Two. Nazi Germany is under a siege by the British, and the cities are no longer safe. The mysterious disappearance of a man, after his refusal to join the Nazi party, forces his wife, and surviving son, to flee to the countryside. There, Gilbert soon finds that the walls surrounding the village keep out more than just the foreign soldiers. A daring escape into the Black Forest exposes a dark underside to a darker war. Safety is relative._

_..._...

**Author's Note**

Hey! It's Awreon. Of course.

According to the rating guide this should be rated M, but there won't be anything hugely explicit... See the warnings for, well, warnings.

Also, I know I still have that other fic running, and I said that I wouldn't start another fanfiction until I finished that one, but this story has been eating at me for about a week by now so I decided to post it anyways. As that leaves me with two unfinished stories, I can't promise super-quick updates, but I do have quite a bit of this story written (it just needs proofing). Also, these chapters are a bit shorter than I'm used to, but that's just the way it turned out. Sorry about that.

Authors Notes will be at the bottom in future chapters... I just need to go over the warnings for the first chapter.

**Warnings: **Werewolf!Ludwig,maybe-not-the-most-accurate historical references, possible violence/sexual mentions in future chapters, strong language.

Finally, reviews are so appreciated. Thanks for reading!

_..._...

It was a war of revenge.

That's what Father always said—closely followed with the strong opinion that a war of revenge leads to nowhere. That revenge could turn people dark and angry and restless, itching for the blood of the people they'd been raised to hate. Revenge lead to actions without thought, Father said. Revenge would pick us up and push us forwards and fill us with energy in the form of hatred, only to run us to disaster.

The man who placed these thoughts of revenge into our minds was well loved. People feared him, respected him, bowed at his feet and took his every word as their own. He was their fucking _messiah_. This man, surely, was the saviour that our nation needed, the saviour that would pull us back to our feet and claim revenge on the world that threw blame at us when we didn't deserve it. The saviour that promised us food when we were starving, hope when we were desperate. He filled our thoughts with the blissful images of a nation returned to its former glory. He was everything we could hope for.

He was also the man that my father had grown to hate.

He had a certain look to his eyes, apparently. Father knew people with that look, and nothing good ever came out of them. This 'messiah' was angry and loud, promising things he could not possibly be sure of. He was cunning, proud, and he could speak to a crowd in such a way that turned every head to his direction, forced every ear to listen, and brought praise from even the most critical of people. He was manipulative, abusing his power and pouring blame on others all while keeping a clean profile for the public.

We were a nation of fools to trust him.

I always thought this statement a bit harsh, though, as we were only human. And it was only human for a people so desperate, so weakened and beaten down, to take hold of whatever hope they could and cling to it with all their strength lest they fall back into despair. And in a country where children were building their toy houses out of the paper we had once called 'money', this desperation was as real as it could get. And desperation of this level could easily lead a group of people into placing their whole trust into a man who promised a better life.

I never shared this opinion with Father, though. He was best left with his own ideas. He was always a straight forward man, after all, and he spoke his mind with such firmness that it was useless to share your personal thoughts. I did respect him for this, but in the end, it was probably the cause of his disappearance.

And I could never forgive him for leaving my mother and I like that, so abruptly. I know it probably wasn't his fault. But though I still held that respect for him, his image turned ever so slightly more bitter.

I had other things on my mind, of course.

...

The disappearance of my father was not the first strange thing to happen to my family. As a young child, I had a baby brother, one whom I apparently adored. About midway through his second year, however, he came down with a fever. The doctor was promptly called, and as we were a family of some status, the arrangements were made for my brother to be sent to the hospital for proper medical care, as the sickness had gotten the better of the poor child. Unfortunately, the hospital could not find a cure, and so the baby was sent home to die.

My mother always talked about my brother, but never called him by name. Humouring her superstition, I never bothered to ask. I didn't remember my brother, anyways—I was too young. I hold not even the faintest memories.

And I don't have much reason to, in any case; my mother always spoke of my brother as a quiet child, a strong and healthy baby until the sickness came and took him. As was custom with a child so young, he spent most of his time in the nursery, cared for by our elderly nurse and kept at distance from my father.

His nurse was the same woman who had cared for me as a child; after my brother's death, we had no need for her anymore, and I can remember her departure. I missed how the woman had sat and read from her collection of fairy tales; she really loved her collection, and I figure it kept her from boredom after hours spent with a disciplined child. I assumed she'd read the stories to my brother, too, though he had only been a baby at the time.

Did that matter, though? Soon enough, I was once again an only child. As I didn't remember my brother, this didn't bother me. Father gave out precious little attention as it was; with all the attention focused on me, the son he had poured all his hopes and dreams into, I was happy. Before he disappeared, I practically fed from this attention; I memorized every word he said, looked up to him as though he could do no wrong. Like the people of our nation looked up to their leader.

Eventually, the leader would lead them to disaster.

Eventually, my father would abandon his family.

I guess that was why I could never hold any real anger at our people; after all, we were only human.

...

The windows were broken on the ninth of November, 1938. Not our windows, of course; nobody had much reason to hate us, other than the bitter poor who looked at our house with contempt. But they knew better than to lay a finger on our windows.

The store across the street, however, had its windows smashed; the inside of the shop was burnt down, and the family on the upper floor rushed out of their home only to see it crumble to the earth. All of their belongings were inside. Their money, already low, was by now completely destroyed. And nobody could do anything about it, for fear of their reputations. No; they could only watch on, thanking the lord that it wasn't their family, wasn't their wife or their husband or their children.

My father watched from the window of his office. There was no trace of thanks in his eyes, only disgust.

The Crystal Night, as it was known, was only rarely mentioned after that; and when it was brought up, it would be in the quiet, angry voice of my father who spoke softly of murder in the form of burning houses.

...

The letter came on the ninth of November, 1940, precisely seven days before Hamburg was bombed by the Royal Air Force. Names like Franco and Hitler had become household words, mentioned at the breakfast table while my father peered over his newspaper and my mother brought the tea.

We were still well-off; Mother had her valuables, in any case, which we could sell in an emergency. But we had money, and status. Before I was born, my father had a high job; perhaps in the government, before it became too much for my father. Coming from wealth as an only child, my mother brought her share of treasures into the marriage. I was always well looked after.

Of course, as it is with most old-fashioned families coming from money, expectations were high in the household, and I was—from a very young age—to be seen and not heard. I had my fair share of opinions, but I never voiced them. I sat up straight. I dressed properly. Most importantly, and especially around adults, I watched my tongue.

It was habits like these, driven into you from a young age, that forced you to remain calm and quiet when you happened upon something startling. Like the letter, perhaps, which sat on the breakfast table looking much too clean and white beside the paper. Or the look of confusion, which was terrifyingly alien on your Father's face. Mother never did come to breakfast.

...

And, two weeks later, Father never came to dinner.

Was it fear that drove him off? Or was he taken? We never knew what drove him off—or what took him away from us. All that we knew was that he was gone, and we were left to our own imaginations as to what he could possibly have done wrong.

As for me, my mind refused to let go of the way he looked out the window at the broken shop front, the way his eyebrows creased as he read the paper, the way his footsteps decreased in pace as he walked through the house. Was it his hidden sympathy, and his pride, that drove him off with no explanation? Surely, our leader would not have wanted a man of such status to live a life so against his wishes; a man who had sympathy for others was dangerous, especially if money backed him up.

Which was why I found myself sitting on a train, next to my mother, watching as the city faded into the distance.

Mother said it was the bombings. But by the way her hands were clenched as they sat on her lap, I knew otherwise. Her face, too—she looked so old, her blonde hair falling over her face in a way she never used to allow. It stood out against the faded red velvet of the seat, catching every slight breeze that made its way through the train car's entrance. The air inside was heavy with dust and smoke and morning, and this foreground of gray just made everything more dismal.

I turned my eyes from my mother and contented myself with watching the world pass outside. Faraway streets and buildings faded into rolling hills, valleys cut deep into the earth and a forest of pines so dense that the ground would have never seen the light.

I failed to see beauty in such scenery. For me, beauty was dark oak desks and dust that caught the light, bookshelves stacked to the ceiling and the pooling of satin drapes as they hit the floor. I knew that, where I was going, there would be no such luxuries. Only what remained when such beauty was taken away—warmth, shelter, safety. Home.

Mother bought me a candy from a passing cart, the desperate attempt of a smile written on her lips.

I turned back to the window.


	2. Wurzeln

November twenty-first, 1940.

Little time had passed since my father's disappearance. Still, my mother was the kind of woman who got things done, who stuck to it until she was actually sitting on the train, tickets in hand and an empty house awaiting her. Not that she was happy with how things had turned out—moving, in her mind, was simply inevitable, something that _had_ to happen.

Something that would get herself, and her son, away from the house of memories in the city. Living a simple life in the country, away from said memories and far from the worries of war, would do her soul good.

She'd already hired a maid; one who would cook for us, as well. She was given tickets and sent to the house in advance to prepare it for our arrival. Though the house was little more than a stone cottage, Mother needed everything to be as proper as it possibly could, and falling back into this nearly obsessive compulsive need was an easy thing to do after such shock. In any case, with a maid to watch the house and provide for us, Mother and I could sit and grieve until the war was over and it was deemed fit to return to the city.

I could tell that our old house would not be moved back into, though. My mother had the determined look to her eyes that she held when she was hiding fear—fear of something new, fear of the unknown. There was a firmness set in her jaw and her eyes were slightly narrowed. She was doing this for her own good, and for the good of her son. She was starting over.

The train rattled and choked and came to a stop, a high whine filling the car as it glided into the station. The valley that we'd been flying beside was replaced with gray walls and ceiling-high windows, which were much too dirty to allow a view of the landscape.

Mother took her bags in hand and, checking to see that I was following, stood up to leave the car. There was a crowd of us that exited the train; the previously quiet station became loud with conversation. Mother and I were bumped to and forth until we managed to make it out the car doors, set our luggage down, and watch the rest of the passengers file out.

From the crowd of people that had exited, only three or four boarded the train. It whistled, loud and echoing from the ceiling, and started to move forwards, until there was only a blur of metal and glass as our only transportation to the city left the station.

Mother picked her bags up once again. She turned towards the exit and started walking, while I grabbed my luggage and ran to catch up.

There was a car waiting for us outside, she'd said. It would take us to the village. The drive would be long, but we'd be safer now, and I was to behave well and keep quiet, especially on the ride to our new house.

We entered the car.

It was black, and small, and I had to keep my luggage on my lap and not complain or move around repetitively for fear of disappointing my mother. I found that distracting yourself by looking out the window didn't work as well when your legs were asleep. I soon gave up.

...

We arrived at the village around noon.

The first thing I noticed was the wall—it sat in a broken sort of circle, encompassing the entire village. It was made of crumbling rocks, overgrown with vines and the tumbling white lace of flowers, beautiful and imposing and much too high to climb. The rocks at its base had crumbled enough to make the wall seem to grow out of the ground itself. Falling from the base were stone staircases, spiraling downwards, leading nowhere, ancient relics to ancient tunnels. The forest stood guard nearby, a few trees venturing towards the wall as if to guard the entrance.

The black van, gliding as smooth as it could over the cobblestone road, turned to follow the length of the wall, coming to a stop when a large metal gate came into view. A guard stood posted, took note of the vehicle, and opened the gates. We were ushered inside; the gates closed behind us with an ominous echo.

My mother turned to me, twisting in her seat.

"Gilbert," she said, "Grab your bags. We'll be walking to our home."

She said her thanks to the driver as I exited the car. Outside, the village seemed huge, stone cottages clinging to the wall and slowly falling in to the town square. Square gardens, set in layers against the incline, formed a maze of supporting rock that grew from the wall itself. The whole village seemed to be made of stone—ancient, overgrown, an English garden left to withstand time and nature. The town square, which was the lowest point in town, was surrounded with shops and market stalls. Venders called out their wares as we passed by.

"Our home is a ways away," Mother said, almost yelling over the market's roar. "We should make it soon enough if we hurry. You can unpack once we get there—your room has a nice view of the garden, and our house is close to the wall, so there shouldn't be much to disturb us."

We turned a corner, clambering up a well-lit alleyway between shops. A cat, sprawled out on the hot stone ground, stretched its paws out in greeting. The air was drenched in sun.

"Oh," my mother added, "And you mustn't leave the wall. The village is huge as it is, and for some reason the villagers are uneasy with anyone leaving unexplained."

She paused. "I assume it has something to do with the war—British soldiers are known to come here from time to time, just to assure themselves that we have little contact with the city. Places as remote as this are known for hiding military outposts, but this village is hiding nothing."

Now, she set her bags down on the steps, turning to face my direction. She held my cheeks in her hands.

"I assure you, love, there is nothing to fear here. We're safe."

"Mama," I said. Not a question, just a reassurance—we _were _safe here, and I trusted her, trusted her to keep me from bombs and soldiers and the memories of my father.

We kept walking.

...

Back in the city, Germany rejoiced.

It was a day after our strength was assured; the tripartite act had sealed Hungary and Romania to our forces. Europe shuddered as we gained strength. There was, truly, nothing in our way; our leader himself had assured us of victory, and no lies could come from his perfect mouth. Even the children had sensed great joy, and great relief. And so the nation had woken up, that morning, from dreams of great things; dreams of food and money and victory and revenge, things far beyond the span of a single human.

In the distance, a tired boy walked the cobblestone steps to his new home, but nobody took notice.

...

The morning came, filled with dust and sun and birdsong and entirely unwelcome.

I turned in my bed.

The mattress was harder than I was used to, with three pillows strewn at random near the headboard. The bed frame itself was nice, though—dark wood with ornate designs, leaves and birds and tree branches stylized to match the black forest outside. It was, in style, almost reminiscent of my city home.

The rest of my room was completely different, however, as was the house on whole. It was comfortable, though. The stone walls were framed with wood on the inside, some painted a faded green that matched the too-soft couches and armchairs. The dining table was tiny, and a light wood, which was new to me. I was used to everything being dark and antique; here, with an abundance of sunlight streaming in through the windows, even the dark and ornate furniture was made light and cozy.

Finally, the house was only two floors, not the three that I was used to. And the second floor was merely storage space. Mother claimed that this was common with the houses here, and that we were lucky to get such a nice abode in such short time.

...

That morning, I had sat at the kitchen table, absentmindedly stirring my tea as the maid shuffled around me. I found the morning light too harsh to read the paper, and so the radio had been switched on, though I strained to hear any noise through the static.

There was talk about the war, of course. Father used to listen to the radio every day, while he sat with his cigar in the living room and watched the smoke pool around him.

Now, there was only dust, and only me. When my father had left, he'd left me man of the house, whether he'd meant to or not. And so the radio was on; I stared at the dust, caught by the window's light, and pretended it was smoke.

The cat from yesterday sat outside.

I glared at it through the window.

_Maybe you like it here, _I thought, _But I don't. I miss the darkness—you should too, you dumb cat. It's better in the city. There are towering houses, and good food and parties and balls, and the poor look at you with a sick respect, and it's beautiful. Here, my house is a cottage. I might as well be as lowly as you._

A stray.

I scoffed and turned from the window. The maid must have caught my expression, as she shot me a confused look and turned back to her work. I scowled at her. The cat outside turned, slowly, and walked away.

Suddenly, the room was too small, the dust turning to real smoke and suffocating me. I stood up—nearly knocking over my tea—and stumbled from the table.

The door was pushed open, the hinges complaining of abuse. But the air outside was so nice—nicer than the city, perhaps, but that was really about it—and I couldn't care much for the door when all I could feel was the air rushing in and out of my lungs, reminding me that there were still wide, open spaces where claustrophobia didn't exist.

But the dust wasn't there, and either was the smoke from the study or the tea or the heat or the morning. There was just the fresh smell of forest, keeping me from my memories and blocking any fantasies of return as I closed my eyes and welcomed the air.

...

Out in the forest, a man sat, his legs entangled in the roots of wild trees. He'd heard about the war—they all had, really—and he was nervous. Thoughts of chains and guns and foreign men marching through his land had filled his dreams and thoughts for weeks, reminding him of stories from his mother's time, warnings and horrors and everything you didn't need to face as a child.

And so the fires were put out, and make-shift camps destroyed and abandoned; he would return to the trees as his home, the grass and dirt and roots, whatever had lay beneath him before a feeble attempt at being human.

This, of course, is how the war had pushed him back to being an animal; though there were no soldiers—not yet—the bloodlust was already there. And there were scratch marks, too, and territories long forgotten. Distant calls of relatives and wolves filled the air at night, suffocating him with thoughts of why, exactly, these calls had become so much more numerous. The forest had started closing in, but he knew it would open up to the enemy, just as it had to the scattered villages erected long before his time. There was chaos in his thoughts. In his dreams. False memories built of stories and fears and fantasies all rolled into one sick pill, forced down his throat by the war and the village and humanity's stupidness in general.

Not that he was much better; still, the large territories and rare encounters with his kind made it difficult for a war to happen in the forest. The humans didn't know anything about this, of course, so they marched through without abandon. The forest was a giant shield. It hid them from their enemies and muffled their plans and calls with heavy branches.

But night would come—for the soldiers, for the war, for the man entangled in the roots. Night would come, and in the consequential darkness, accidental encounters with the impossible would prove a darker war, one largely unimagined up until this point.

It was coming. He didn't know that, yet—the man in the woods. But he knew he was waiting for something.

So he lay down, pulled the roots over his body like a blanket, and fell asleep to pass the time.

...

**Author's Note**

Second chapter! Maybe this one will get reviews :P And maybe the cheesy cover with the red writing and all wasn't the best idea, but I really couldn't help myself.

In any case, tell me what you think! Reviews are very much appreciated! As is constructive criticism, just so you know.

~ Awreon


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